


Driving Seat

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: First day of working together, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle's first few days of working together</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Seat

Tossing his sports bag onto the back seat with a force that made it slide to the floor, Doyle slammed shut the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Still fuming after his meeting with George Cowley earlier that day, he did not drive off immediately but sat glaring with impotent fury at the door of the CI5 flat he had moved into only a month before.

So Cowley wanted him to have a partner.

That was no great surprise; Doyle had known from his first day that Cowley did not  
intend his to be a solo career within CI5, although that had been the case since his appointment. The tasks he had been allocated since then had been of a nature to make Doyle wonder whether he might not have done better to apply to run a play group for the under fives. All he had to show for his thirty-four days in CI5 were bags under his eyes from the early morning starts. But he was fit. Christ, was he fit. Barry Martin had seen to that, the sod. Embarrassing when some middle-aged swinger laid you out for the third time in succession.

A partner.

In the few hectic weeks since his initial interview Doyle had discovered that what George Cowley wanted George Cowley got.

Fine. Flattering in its way, considering the strings that had been pulled to shorten his period of notice from the Force. Doyle still had to be convinced that Cowley's whim necessitated his being teamed with an ex-bloody-mercenary. If CI5 was that hard up for men things must be bad. All percussion grenades and machismo Bodie would be.

Turning the key in the ignition Doyle glanced over his shoulder and slid the car into a gap in the traffic, heading for the sports club where Cowley had ‘suggested' he meet his partner-to-be. It wasn't that Doyle had anything against the idea of working with someone else - he'd taken the necessity of a partner for granted during his days on the Force. Sometimes a teaming worked, sometimes it didn't. You either counted your blessings or you made the best of a bad job.

Usually.

This wasn't so much bad as potentially disastrous.

For all Cowley's pep-talk Doyle couldn't see any of his previous teamings being of much help in preparing him for this one. He'd always been paired with another copper, which gave you something in common even while you fought like cat and dog. Respect, for one thing.

A bloody gunrunner.

Cowley must have rocks inside that balding head. An ex-mercenary, paras and ex-SAS sergeant. He probably eats Armalites for breakfast, Doyle mused with gloom. Subtlety wasn't going to be one of Bodie's strong points either. He'd be lucky if the man could read and write. He knew these military types - dead from the neck up.

Ruffled by the Scotsman's less than diplomatic announcement of his future Doyle was in no mood to concede the possibility that he might be over-reacting.

“Put up or get out if your fine sensibilities prevent you from giving the man a try..." Not that Cowley had stopped there, of course.

Doyle had never responded well to that kind of pressure being brought to bear, as previous superior officers could have testified. On this occasion he had taken it, albeit with slit-eyed anger. He never had been able to resist a challenge.

Still, Doyle reminded himself as he began to cheer up, there was no point getting steamed up over nothing. If Bodie didn't shape up the way he thought he should...

What the hell. Doyle beamed at a passing cyclist. He could be a bit unsubtle himself, if the need arose. It wouldn't take long to establish who the brains of this team was going to be.

 

 

Once inside the sports club Doyle quickly changed and made his way up onto the viewing gallery, having decided to check out the squash and badminton courts first. Scorning the plush couches with their leggy, attractive burdens of young matrons getting away from it all, he leant forward over the rail, his gaze flicking over the players on the courts below. For once Ray Doyle's mind was on matters far removed from female pulchritude.

At this time on a weekday it was rare to see men of his own age around a club as expensive as this one. The unemployed could not afford the fees and those who could were more likely to be engaged in working diligently somewhere in the City, paying off next year's dues. In the circumstances it did not take Doyle long to work out which of the men must be his potential partner.

It was the aggressively cropped hair which first drew his attention, his gaze wandering until he was studying the man's profile. The watchful eyes gave the man away; quite apart from the demands of the game they were always assessing, seeming to miss little of what was going on around him.

Squash wasn't Doyle's game but he knew good reflexes when he saw them. And physical fitness. Bodie moved well. Foreshortened from this angle, his muscled body moved around the court with a deceptively smooth speed that denied physical effort, in stark contrast to his struggling opponent. Bodie offered the less skilled player no quarter, making full use of his ferocious backhand. It was obvious he played to win.

Doyle approved of that.

Watching a short, conclusive barrage of shots he realised it was not so much a match he was witnessing as a massacre. Having seen enough, he left the gallery, deciding he might as well take advantage of the facilities while CI5 were paying for them.

 

 

"Thanks for the match," said Bodie with bland insincerity, waving a casual hand at his defeated and still gasping opponent before strolling off court.

He would have to remember to avoid Allison if he continued to use this club. The older man had been too easy and Bodie liked a challenge in whatever he did.

He glanced at his watch; he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Doyle. With surplus energy waiting to be expended he made his way to the gym. The day, which had started inauspiciously with a call from George Cowley, was going from bad to worse, he decided. Finding the gym the most crowded area, he frowned his displeasure.

The necessity of warm-up exercises always bored the hell of him but at least it was something to do until the weights should be free. Finding an empty mat Bodie began a routine which would have exhausted most people, musing bitterly on the orders he had been given.

A partner.

He had half-expected this; had been resigned to the necessity, at least in the beginning, until he had a chance to prove himself. But he had thought it would be with someone who knew what the score was, with another ex-serviceman.

He had spent most of his adult life working within small, highly trained units of men - and occasionally with just one man. He'd had enough of the latter in Ireland and Holland, making his preference for solo work clear at his initial interview. Bodie knew and trusted his own skills. From his own experience a one-to-one pairing had too many risks - only a few of which were physical, he remembered, his bleak expression forbidding. But forearmed was forewarned. At least he knew he could work with a partner if he had to; if he wanted to be a part of CI5 it looked as if he had to.

There was no point whining about it. If he'd wanted a quiet life he was going the wrong way about finding it. Besides, he was intrigued enough by the challenge the job seemed to offer to be willing to compromise - to an extent. That concession hadn't been wholly voluntary. Cowley had made it clear that he either accepted Doyle, untried and untested, or he left. No messing about, remembered Bodie. He approved of that.

After forty minutes of intense physical activity he was sweating freely, his muscles loose and relaxed. But his sense of physical well-being was off-set by a sense of nagging discontent.

A policeman.

Po-faced, flat-footed and with as much sense of humour...

His train of thought was distracted when he caught sight of a wiry figure working on a horse at the opposite end of the large gym. Wandering closer, Bodie idly watched the flowing series of exercises with an ungrudging appreciation, recognising the level of fitness required to make the routine appear so effortless. He enjoyed seeing anything well done and remained to watch unobtrusively as one of the instructors went over to the man, encouraging him to go through another, more demanding, routine. Bodie noted the total application the stranger gave to mastering one move which he clearly found difficult, easing up only when he had mastered it.

Only when the man dismounted for the last time with a supple twist did Bodie amble out of the gym and into the locker room. Stripping off his damp top, he unfastened his shorts.

The water was hot today. Not like the only other time he had been here, the day he had first met Cowley. It was an odd place to choose for an initial interview but then Cowley, for all his Establishment manner, didn't seem too orthodox in the way he went about things - the selection of possible recruits, for one. So far he’d been proved right about everything he had said that day. The three week training course in particular. It had been tough all right, even for someone as fit as himself. Bodie found himself speculating how Doyle would have coped with it, dismissing the thought instantly. It wasn't Doyle's physical fitness he was worried about but how the man would react under pressure - under fire. Coppers had it too easy.

Soaping himself luxuriously, his face tilted up to the water, he tried to avoid thinking about the burden he had been saddled with. An incorruptible ex-DC with moral fibre was a dismal prospect.

"Afternoon," said a nonchalant voice from the other side of his shower stall.

Water streaming from his hair and down his face, Bodie turned, his expression unamused and unwelcoming. "Did you want me?"

The man who had just spoken, leaning indolently against the corner of the front of the stall, just out of reach of the spraying water, was unimpressed.

"If your name's Bodie I don't seem to have much option. Yeah, you're Bodie."

Holding his undistinguished companion's gaze for a moment, Bodie glanced down at himself. "Do I have some distinguishing feature I should know about?" he asked coldly.

Insolent green eyes made a slow survey of their own. "I can't see anything out of place," their owner conceded.

It was, Bodie recognised with a faint trace of surprise, the athlete he had been watching in the gym.

"That's reassuring," he murmured as he rinsed the soap from his body. His eyes cleared of water, his contemptuous gaze took in the smaller-boned frame and aggressively curling hair.

An acrobatic policeman.

"You're Doyle, then." He seemed unexcited by the discovery.

"That's me," Doyle agreed with a cheerfulness designed to conceal the antipathy he felt, aware of the obvious comparisons being made by his muscle-bound partner-to-be. Levering himself away from the support of the shower stall, he gestured down to his sweat-stained outfit. "I've got to get cleaned up, so I'll meet you in the bar. We can have a nice chat," he added, in the tone of one offering a rare treat.

Before Bodie could disabuse him of the notion, Doyle had disappeared, anything else Bodie might have wished to say drowned by the rush of water from the adjoining stall and a husky-voiced massacre of a vaguely familiar song.

 

Thirty minutes later in the opulent club bar the atmosphere between the two men was markedly different, all surface pleasantries and a cautious eyeing up.

Trying a little judicious needling, which was deflected with a caustic wit, Bodie settled for his usual, more laconic style. Understanding each other only a little better when they parted company an hour later, both men were noticeable underwhelmed by the thought of working together.

oOo

The following day Bodie and Doyle arrive separately but on time for their appointment with the head of CI5, knowing they were to receive their first joint assignment. New to CI5 and to each other, both men were out to prove themselves in their own way.

Quick to sense the wary antagonism that accompanied his newest recruits into the room, Cowley wasted little time. Assigning them to a simple trace and pick-up job, he ignored the dark eyebrow Bodie raised or the face Doyle pulled.

Smiling faintly, he watched them leave united only in their disapproval of himself. It was, he tried to convince himself, a beginning.

 

 

Bodie's expression was one of bored disdain as Doyle took them through the maze of south-east London backstreet. After four hours of crawling along increasingly dingy streets in pursuit of the elusive Mister Blakeney, disillusion had set in. Bodie was in the mood for blood, and not inclined to be particular whose blood. Doyle's place profile had become an increasing source of irritation as the morning progressed.

"Drive much while you were on the Force, did you?" Bodie asked, breaking the inimical silence.

Doyle spared him a glance. The ex-mercenary's expression had been thunderous since they left Cowley's office, Bodie obviously regarding their assigned task as one beneath his talents. Doyle had begun to wonder exactly what they would prove to be. Bodie's confidence in his own abilities was monumental and, as yet, untested. So far he had demonstrated only a stunning level of boredom.

Equally bored and probably twice as disgruntled, Doyle had no intention of admitting as much, even to himself. "Some," he said uninformatively.

"Fancy yourself as a good driver, do you?"

The inference was unmistakable.

Refusing to rise to the offered provocation Doyle said only, "Good enough." The smile he received made him count silently to three.

"Yeah, well that may have been good enough for the Met., I'm used to better than that."

"Really?" Doyle's eyebrows rose in polite query. "Yeah, well I can see you'd have had to master the art of the fast getaway. Hot stuff behind a wheel, are you?"

Bodie's expression of superiority made it clear he had perfect confidence in his ability to rise to any occasion. "I've seen old ladies of eighty drive with more flair than you," he announced with lazy disdain.

Doyle received the news in a thoughtful silence. "I prefer my birds a bit younger myself," he offered eventually. He spared the tailored figure at his side a pitying glance. "I suppose that's all you can manage to pull though."

Smoothly cutting up an irate taxi driver, he drew up at the curbside, applied the handbrake and switched off the ignition before turning to face the other man. "But mabe you can teach me a thing or two at that. You drive," he invited mildly, before getting out the car.

Shunting over into the driving seat without a word, Bodie's expression was one of cool acceptance as he adjusted the driving mirror, more for show than necessity. He exuded a faint air of contempt that Doyle should have capitulated so easily while ignoring the trace of a smile on the other man's face.

Approximately two minutes later he appreciated what lay behind it. The natural course of action to take when lost was to seek directions; that option was closed to him. Approaching the junction at the end of the high street Bodie, having accepted that the odds on his chances of success were even, signalled left.

One knee crooked against the dashboard, sprawled very much at his ease, Doyle glanced around with every appearance of surprise. "Know a short-cut to Parsons's Street, do you?"

Bodie offered what he hoped would be taken for an enigmatic grunt but privately acknowledged he had lost this particular bout when he found himself approaching a roundabout.

"Take the second exit, then the third on your right, then the first left," instructed Doyle a concise pleasure.

"Why?" asked Bodie simply, as he slid the car into the flow of the traffic, following the directions he had been given.

"Easy. You might fancy pratting around here all day, I don't. It might be an idea for you to spend a few evenings learning your way around London, hotshot."

Which remark effectively quenched the grudging thanks Bodie had been about to offer.

Arriving at yet another seedy betting shop, they found Mister Blakeney noticeable only by his absence. The three old age pensioners and the pimply youth behind the counter were of no help at all.

Dead end.

Calling in to concede as much, Doyle sat in a surly silence while he heard that Blakeney had been picked up twenty minutes ago outside Tufnell Park tube station by local police busy in an operation unconnected with CI5's interest in the man. Another team had been sent to extract the information they wanted from Blakeney.

They'd spent the entire morning on the wrong side of the fucking river, never mind - Replacing the receiver of the handset with great precision, Doyle sat and scowled through the fly-smeared windscreen.

His sense of humour resurfacing all the faster in the face of Doyle's obvious gloom, Bodie extended a stick of chewing gum. "Win some, lose some."

Doyle took the proffered stick with a nod of acknowledgement, uncheered by the platitude. "I prefer to win myself," he replied, his jaw working busily.

Folding and refolding the silver gum wrapper, he finally scrunched it up and tossed it out on to the littered pavement. The whole set-up stank of exactly that - a set-up. New boys were often considered fair game, first day and all that, although he had expected better from Cowley. Doyle chewed in a thoughtful silence. Now he thought about it, everyone had been just that little bit too quick to give them the next lead on Blakeney's likely whereabouts. In an area like this one the active volunteering of information to anyone in authority was undertaken only for personal gain.

But why was the name Blakeney so familiar?

Doyle snapped his gum. When he'd been nine years old and stuck in bed with the measles his mum had come in one day in time to confiscate ‘Fanny Hill' just as it was getting to an interesting bit. She'd given him a thump and -

Blakeney. The elusive sodding pimpernel.

He hadn't taken to either the book or the name then.

Bugger.

Well, Bodie would either work it out for himself or he had been in on it from the beginning. Doyle gave his companion's scowling profile a glance and dismissed the thought. Bodie would have to work it out for himself then. Someone, somewhere, was probably busting a gasket. Doyle couldn't see anything even mildly humorous about the hoax but was faintly relieved the put-on had been so mild. He'd known a lot worse.

Never a great believer in coincidence, Bodie had reached the same conclusion about their morning's activities, although through different channels, springing from distrust. About to voice the thought, he closed his mouth again. He might be wrong. Anyway, while he didn't trust Cowley, he trusted Doyle a great deal less. From the smug look on that round face Doyle had probably been in on the joke from the beginning. All very amusing no doubt. It seemed bloody childish to Bodie.

Slumped down on the passenger seat, his chin almost propped on his chest, Doyle shot the man next to him a hostile look. "Considering that we haven't got anything better to do, we may as well go back to headquarters. You do know the way?"

Bodie's terse affirmative held a totally illusory confidence.

Doyle, who had come over the years to know London and its immediate environs better than many taxi drivers, closed his eyes, giving Bodie the option of struggling or of asking for directions.

In the fullness of time, and only after several unscheduled detours, Bodie found his way back to civilisation and the Elephant and Castle: familiarity. His face a mask of displeasure, he was unrefreshed by the welcome rush of cooler air as the car crossed Blackfriars Bridge, only to be caught in a traffic snarl-up on the Embankment.

 

 

Their report made, lunch eaten and having nothing else to do, Bodie and Doyle found themselves alone in the rest room. The entire building seemed quiet but they were too unfamiliar with CI5 to know if that was normal. Entrenched in one-upmanship neither would have dreamt of asking the other.

The cluttered room, littered with old newspapers and plastic beakers, was humid, the air tainted with the age of the building and the fact all the dusty windows seemed to be painted into the frame. Stripping off their concealing jackets, both men slid out of their holsters with well-concealed relief, unused to the open wearing of small arms.

Bodie's experience with them had been limited, hand guns were neither his preference or speciality. Doyle, a Met. marksman, had carried a hand gun in the line of duty only twice; he had never had cause to fire it in the line of duty and had yet to come to terms with the casual issue of the Smith & Wesson sitting behind him. Old habits died hard.

Working on a half-finished crossword in a desultory kind of way because there was nothing better to do and feeling inadequate at his lack of inspiration after ten minutes, Doyle contrived to break the lead the in the pencil he had been using.

Unable to stop yawning, Bodie felt too dispirited to find the malice to offer his pen.

Time passed.

 

Tired of watching the other man cheat at solitaire with the grubby pack of cards he had found, Doyle wandered off to the vending machine. It was out of order. He had just returned to slump back on one of the uncomfortable plastic chair when they were called into the control room by a harassed looking secretary.

Cowley spared them a dubious glance as they entered the half-empty room, sighed, and proceeded to give them a terse background to the emergency call which had come in.

"...before either of you get exalted ideas of your own importance, the only reason I'm resorting to sending you two out on this is the present lack of manpower. You're unarmed! Where are your weapons?" he asked sharply.

"In the rest room," replied Bodie with a trace of hauteur.

"Well go and get them, man. They'll be of no use to you slung over the back of a chair. You'll wear them at all times, unless sent undercover. Even in HQ. Clear? Good. I'll join you out there with some backup as soon as I can. You'll take no precipitate action until I arrive. You haven't joined the Storm troopers. Right, now get a move on."

"Isn't this a police matter?" asked Doyle, an edge to his voice. He seemed unperturbed by the older man's look of disapproval.

Cowley's pained glance flickered over the Doyle with evident distaste, before moving on to Bodie with no noticeable increase of approval.

"They'll be assisting us, naturally. Jacobs is our informer. It is the Jacobs family that Palmer and his men are holed up with, which makes this a matter for CI5. It's an emergency call, gentlemen," he reminded them, his voice tart as they continued to stand there.

They took the hint.

 

Reaching the car first, Bodie slid into the driving seat. "You made your point this morning," he said rapidly. "Now, are you going to give me directions or do I ask Control for them? But let's not forget the gunman let loose on suburbia," he added sardonically.

Doyle's directions and some skilful if exuberant driving got them to the quiet North London estate in record time. The house in question was set in a small, expensive cul-de-sac, each detached dwelling set in grounds designed to look spacious. Apart from the unmarked police cars at every approach road to the estate everything looked very normal, except for the absence of any pedestrians or passing traffic.

Basking in the afternoon sunshine, the besiege house looked tranquil as Bodie and Doyle strolled down the road towards it, talking conspicuously - two neighbours returning home after a hard day's work.

"Though god knows what you're supposed to be. I can't see you qualifying for the bowler hat and brolly brigade," said Bodie, casually glancing past the man at his side.

Cowley's idea about joint decision making within the partnership was a load of crap, he decided, already certain in his own mind who the decision maker in this particular team would be.

His tee shirt crumpled and sweat-stained under his leather bomber jacket Doyle silently cursed the necessity of wearing it in this heat. He peered with spurious sorrow at his jeans.

"I put me best outfit on, too. God knows what you'll say when you see what I'll be wearing tomorrow. Someone at the upstairs window, movement in the bottom right," he added, his tone unchanged.

From the moment they had left the car they had unconsciously fallen into an abbreviated form of speech, overt antagonism put to one side while they concentrated on essentials. All the attention focussed outwards, neither man was conscious of the ease with which they were already beginning to anticipate one another.

"Relax. Woman in her forties downstairs. Upstairs has stepped back out of view," said Bodie. He slowed as they approached a house two doors down from the one they were interested in.

"You sure about the woman?"

Bodie spared him a look of disbelief. "Bloody positive. She had nice knockers for a bird her age. I want to see what the back of the house is like. That side entrance is great - if you like suicide runs."

"Follow me," said Doyle tranquilly.

He paused nonchalantly halfway down the short, crazy-paved driveway, pointing with pride to a mildewed rosebush for local colour before he reached the side gate. Finding it unlocked he slipped through, wincing as it squeaked in protest. Muttering under his breath, Bodie followed him.

The abandoned deckchairs and children's toys scattered across the lawn, the faces surreptitiously watching from the upstairs window spoke of the success of the phone calls which had been made to every other house in the road. With a little luck the gunmen would have no idea that they had been spotted. Bodie had already suggested that unmarked cars cruise around the estate at random intervals. A total absence of traffic, even at this time of day, would be likely to attract the attention they were seeking to avoid.

Strolling down the garden path Bodie paused, delicately fingering a full-blown rose before he bent, ostensibly to inhale its perfume. "Three foot chain link fencing between each garden. Patio doors into the lounge look standard. Untinted glass, no sign of an alarm or dog. Great visibility and bugger all cover whichever route you take. Shame they're all such keen gardeners."

"We don't know that we'll need to go that route," Doyle reminded him. "We might not need any route, we could talk them out." He nipped absently at something green and bushy, inadvertently causing much anguish to the householder watching as his prize camellia was decapitated.

"An expert in siege situations, are you?"

SAS trained, Doyle paused to remind himself. "Not to your level, no. Not a beginner either. We wait for Cowley."

Typical police mentality, thought Bodie, holding the other man's gaze for an unyielding moment. "Never doubted it," he said finally, smooth as silk. "I just hope you're a better back-up man than you are a driver."

Pushing his dark glasses up on top of his head Doyle sauntered past Bodie as if he was invisible. "I couldn't say," he murmured, "but I'm a great cook. You comin', hotshot?" With one coolly provocative glance he slipped out through the side gate.

Beset by a sudden doubt as to Doyle's intent, Bodie speeded up, running when he was out of sight of the house two doors away and slowing when he saw Doyle waiting for him in the front drive.

"Gently, 3.7," Doyle chided. "Two neighbours off for a stroll in the sun, remember?"

"Gosh, I'm glad you reminded me," said Bodie earnestly, disconcerting Doyle with a beaming smile of illusory sweetness. Something, he decided, was going to have to be done with Doyle before he did it to him. "There are three kids in that house, age unknown, together with their mother." All trace of spurious good-humour was gone.

Doyle was too busy concentrating on the cracked paving stones beneath their feet to notice. "All the more reason to do it by the book and try to talk Palmer out." His quiet voice had lost its challenging edge.

Bodie rubbed the back of his head. "You did read the report on Palmer, I suppose?"

"Oh yeah. I didn't say it was going to be easy. But with anyone that unstable you have to start with the softly-softly approach."

"‘Unstable'? The guy's a fucking nutter," corrected Bodie. "A nutter with a history of violence since he was thirteen. If one of those kids starts whining or playing up there'll be one brat less. Palmer's got nothing to lose. When he gets nicked they'll throw away the key. And he knows it."

"We wait for Cowley." The flat determination in Doyle's quiet voice made Bodie pause.

"What if Palmer doesn't want to wait?" he challenged.

"We'll worry about that when it happens."

Strolling out of the seemingly tranquil, sun-baked cul-de-sac, it occurred to Bodie that if Doyle used that tone of voice on him one more time he'd nut him.

"...go in?"

"Eh?" Bodie's tie was beginning to feel as if it was strangling him and his shirt was unreservedly wet. He wondered with a vague resentment how Doyle managed to look so cool.

"They say it makes you go deaf. I've never had to resort to it myself. The odds are that Cowley will send us in when the light goes. Have you had much experience of this kind of situation?"

There was a subtle difference in Doyle's manner. Momentarily at a loss to account for it, Bodie realised that the other man was actually taking him seriously, his manner that of someone speaking to an equal rather than a mentally retarded delinquent. He mimed shock.

"You're not suggesting I might be able to teach an ex-DC anything, surely?"

Cowley's approach killed Doyle's reply.

Frowning as he limped towards the two very different figures, Cowley was quick to sense the hostile atmosphere. He spared two minutes to deliver a pungent and public reprimand to the pair of them on the subject of nursing their fragile egos at the expense of public safety.

"If you feel you can keep your minds on the job for more than five minutes at a time I suggest you follow me. You two and Matheson and King are the only agents at my disposal. You'll go in just after dusk. We'll discuss the how now. Any questions?"

It didn't seem the appropriate moment to voice any of them. Temporarily chastened, they trailed after him.

 

 

"So I'll take the front," said Bodie, with the air of a man who had already made up his mind. Cramped in the back of the car, he continued to dress in the dark trousers and roll neck sweater which had been provided for him.

Perched on the side of the front seat, watching him absently, Doyle shook his head. "It'll be better if I take the front. The back's the tricky approach with that lack of cover. You've got the expertise to deal with that - the kids are still in the lounge." He didn't enjoy conceding Bodie's superiority but the situation left him with little option. That didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

Bodie's scornful gaze raked his companion, his doubts obvious. The front approach would be the danger zone.

Lifting one buttock, Doyle slid a hand into his back pocket and fished out and waved a sliver of plastic at him. "My strength is as the strength of ten. Besides, I've always wanted to kick a door down."

He was aware of the aura of calm competence emanating from Bodie - a little demoralised by it, truth be told. Adrenalin pumping into his system he tried, without much success, to block his imagination of everything that could wrong.

Still frowning heavily, Bodie was staring at him, every doubt mirrored on his face.

Doyle gave him a look of exasperation. "Look, believe it or not, I'm considered quite good with a S&W in my hand, while I'm wearing my contact lenses, of course," he added, with the air of one making a clean breast of things.

His black jacket zipped up to the throat to conceal his light shirt, Matheson came up to the car. Whippet thin, he looked edgy, a fact Doyle found vaguely comforting.

"Come on, you two. We haven't got all night. Who's taking the back with me?" he demanded.

Feeling himself under surveillance, Doyle kept quiet. This had to be Bodie's call.

"I am, as soon as I've covered up. There's ten minutes to go yet," Bodie pointed out in the same relaxed tone.

Sweating in the heavy Aran pullover which had been given to him to wear, Doyle watched without amusement as the pale skin of Bodie's face disappeared under a coat of the smudgy black greasepaint Matheson had handed to him, and was already wearing, even on his eyelids. Those two were going to need all the cover they could get if they were to reach those patio doors undetected. The moon was full and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a picture-book example of a summer's evening.

‘Fire when you see the white's of their eyes.' Doyle looked up to find King standing in front of him.

"Here you go, Doyle." King tossed over a dark woollen face mask before making off to have a word with his partner.

For a moment Doyle envied the ease and certainty between Matheson and King, not that he could imagine trusting anyone the way those two trusted each other. Pushing the slightly wistful thought aside, aware that his mouth was dry and his palms damp, Doyle dragged on the helmet. His eyes glittered in the dim light as he looked at Bodie.

"All we need now is for one of us to get lost," he said wryly.

Giving him another dubious look, Bodie got out of the car to lean moodily against the side. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said. There was no encouragement in his tone or expression.

Abruptly Doyle had had enough.

"You can stand here all night wonderin' if I'm any good, or you can try to provide back-up." His voice was soft and vitriolic, all trace of ease banished. "But if I get my fucking head blown off because you weren't covering me I'll come back and haunt you. Clear?"

"As crystal," said Bodie, the set of his shoulders altering as some of his tension was lost to amusement. It never paid to under-estimate the opposition; the little bastard was furious. "Can't see you as a ghost. All those chains clanking around wouldn't suit you at all. I must go. See you inside."

His rubber-soled boots made no sound as he left, motioning for Matheson to follow him. Even with all his attention on the two men Doyle found it increasingly difficult to place them as they slipped from shadow to shadow. Checking his watch, he nodded to King and they were off themselves. Moving into the quiet cul-de-sac, they hugged the pools of darkness outside the arcs of light cast by the street lamps.

 

Running high on the adrenalin surging through his system even now the need for it had passed, sweat soaking his face mask, Doyle automatically comforted his armful of terrified femininity, gratified by how matter of fact he sounded.

"All right, it's all right, love," he reassured her. His bruised hands were gentle now as they stroked down her narrow back, supporting her until she should have stopped shaking enough to be able to stand unassisted. With pert breasts pressing against his chest, the pliant softness of her belly grazing his groin and the sweet scent of her all around him, he knew a pang of pure lust.

Jail bait, he reminded himself laconically. His breath caught as she thrust herself at him, her hair tickling his chin and small hands clutching at his flanks, trying to anchor herself against the horrors.

"All right now, love" he repeated, with more hope than conviction.

He tried to hold her away from himself as best he could, attempting to concentrate on something - anything - else in case her faith in mankind was further shattered. While Saint George hadn't gone around with a hard-on for the maidens in distress he rescued, Ray Doyle felt randier than a three-balled tomcat.

A uniformed WPC appeared in the doorway and with a final pat to her back Doyle released his fragrant burden, caught between relief and frustration as his Delilah was led away.

Moments later the room reverberated with sound as the parted Jacobs menage enjoyed a noisy and emotion-charged reunion. Perched unnoticed on the broad arm of an easy chair Doyle's gaze drifted over the seeming throng of family, ambulance men and police to see the wide-shouldered, dark-clad figure of Bodie standing motionless just inside in the doorway. He was laughing at something one of the WPC's had whispered to him on her way out.

It was a definite improvement, Doyle decided, familiar only with curled lip disdain. His eyes drifted wistfully back to the fourteen year old legs so amply revealed to him before they vanished out of his life as the family were escorted away from tea, comfort and questioning.

The silence when they were gone was almost deafening and it was moment before Doyle realised that the only other person in the room was Bodie, who stood propped against the wall just inside the door, his face an unreadable mask. Peeling off his face mask and raking a hand through his flattened hair, Doyle dangled the limp wool from one hand.

"Well?" he asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow. He knew as well as Bodie must that it was his yell that had saved Bodie from a bullet in the back.

Blue eyes continued to flick around the room, assessing the damage done to this haven of middle-class respectability. There was surprisingly little, certainly nothing to worry the insurance man.

Bodie turned his gaze to Doyle, noting the reserve of contained energy waiting to be unleashed. Doyle, it would seem, was going to be full of surprises. Bodie had already seen enough to make him re-evaluate the wiry frame. The exotic face was a deceptive window dressing that would come in handy for uncover work. Doyle was a belligerent bastard in a fight; effective, too.

"I always have been a good driver," he said without emotion. "Spend much time at a fairground when you were a kid, did you?"

Absently flexing his stiffening hand Doyle realised it was the only compliment - or thanks - he could expect to get. Ungrateful bugger, he thought, wryly amused. There again, Bodie had taken that bloke built like a gorilla off him while there was still something of him left to be saved - and find time to grin while he was doing it.

All hell had broken loose once they had got inside the house. But there were no fatalities; no casualties at all except for the bloke he had shot in the shoulder.

Doyle frowned. That was funny. He could have sworn he'd got that ginger-haired bloke with his other shot, having glimpsed movement at the top of the stairs. It was lucky Palmer's lot had been complacent enough to move around the house unarmed, except for those first three. It could have been a blood-bath instead of a few lumps and a lot of bruises - most of them, from the feel of it - on himself. Feeling hot and claustrophobic in the heavy sweater he'd been given to wear he began to remove it, a grunt of discomfort escaping him as his bruised shoulder complained and for a moment he was stuck.

"Watching you undress doesn't inspire a lot of confidence," said Bodie, tossing the sweater onto the sofa. Doyle yanked down his tee shirt but not before Bodie had taken in the bruising springing up on the other man's back. "I know just the thing for bruises," he added matter of factly.

"Yeah?"

"Move faster," said Bodie deadpan.

Doyle gave a wry snort. "You got that right. And here was me hoping it would involve a busty blonde."

"Close," murmured Bodie as Cowley limped into the room.

Taking their verbal report Cowley missed nothing of their residual tension and fear-inspired irritation, the untapped energy awaiting release. Both men revealed their different backgrounds in the clarity with which they recalled the sequence of events. Doyle was meticulously accurate, Bodie laconic, tending to skim over his own activities. What interested Cowley most was the apparent ease with which each anticipated what the other was about to say, and the glancing references which acknowledged the possibility of merit in the other.

It had, Cowley decided, cautiously satisfied, been quite a successful day.

If either Bodie or Doyle found it odd that the other two agents weren't required to be present at this unorthodox debriefing they said nothing of it. By the end of their joint recital they were being to feel pleased with themselves, each other and even the absent Matheson and King; their complacency showed.

Cowley gave them little opportunity to enjoy it.

"Doyle, how much ammunition did you use?"

"Just the initial two, sir."

Bodie?"

"The same." And how one of them had failed to put down Palmer was still a mystery.

"Aye." Cowley eyed with a benign impartiality that made both men feel faintly uneasy. "Well, I believe in giving praise where it's due. Your handling of this operation was adequate."

"Ade - "

Stung, Bodie gave the older man a look of cold displeasure, straightening where he stood. Doyle's wide, unblinking gaze was openly hostile

"I, however," continued Cowley, as though there had been no interruption, "expect better from those working for me. I have a few more questions. Bodie, did nothing strike you as odd about the conduct of this operation?"

Tempted to say almost everything, Bodie maintained a mutinous silence, certain now there was more to this than met the eye.

"I can see we have a lot of work ahead of us," sighed Cowley, making himself comfortable on a hardback chair. "I was led to believe you were both capable of elementary observation - on occasion. Doyle, be so good as to examine your ammunition clip."

Sliding the S&W from its holster, Doyle ejected the slip, turning it between long fingers that suddenly stilled.

"I've bin usin' fucking blanks!" The relief mingled with his disbelief angered him even more. So he was still a virgin.

"What?" Coming to his side, Bodie made a similar check and discovery, holding out his clip for Doyle to see.

As one man they turned to Cowley, unamused.

"Och, sit yourselves down and stop bristling," he told them with a faint smile. "One can only marvel at your confidence in yourselves. CI5 may be only a small unit but do you seriously imagine I would risk any member of the public with men who've been on operational strength together a mere nine hours? You have brains, use them. Incidentally, I'm disappointed in your powers of observation, Bodie. You laid out an ex-instructor and never thought anything of it?"

" _That_ was Hartley?" Incomprehension was overtaken by outrage. "You mean that Palmer and his mob were all - "

"Other branches of the intelligence services always welcome the opportunity to brush up their various skills," Cowley informed them with a bland smile. "We try to co-operate with each other whenever possible."

"And the hostages?" enquired Doyle, feeling numb by this time.

Cowley gave another wry smile. "Ah, yes. The hostages. I thought they gave remarkably good performances. No doubt you'll be seeing some of them around headquarters in the fullness of time. Which reminds me. Doyle, you need to work on your technique. A little paternal reassurance is quite acceptable but - "

"How old is she?" he demanded with a dangerous calm.

"Twenty-three," replied Cowley with quiet enjoyment. "And one of my secretarial staff." The warning lacked subtlety.

Bodie gave a choke of laugher, able to grasp the nature of Doyle's problem without difficulty.

The chilly blue gaze subjecting him to a leisurely survey had a sobering effect.

"I agree, 3.7. It was amusing. Although it would be more so if your own performance hadn't been so slipshod. Your proper training begins tomorrow."

"I was cleared from basic training two weeks ago," Bodie snapped.

Doyle was silent, still staring at the clip of ammunition clamped in his hand. He had checked it only this morning before putting it in his holster. The only time he'd taken that off had been back in the safety of headquarters.

"These clips were switched while our guns were left in the rest room," he said, disbelief overriding anger.

"Now you know why you were told to wear them at all times," Cowley told hi,, unimpressed by the younger man's outrage. "Both of you are too good to be let loose on anyone - even other agents - with live ammunition." He paused, his gaze flicking between them. "I understand that you were disgruntled after this morning's work, suspecting you may have been - er - set up?"

"We wasted a lot of petrol," confirmed Bodie, his expression hostile. Sliding out of his holster he peeled off his dark sweater with relief. His shirt clung damply.

"So you came back to headquarters feeling foolish and disgruntled. It didn't occur to you to check out your suspicions with me and you were complacent enough to leave your weapons unattended. Did neither of you listen to the lectures down at the training centre? Trust no one, take nothing and no one for granted if you want to stay alive. Not even your own kind."

"And particularly not you?" interrupted Bodie, his tone acid. His only - minor - consolation was the mixture of chagrin and rage on Doyle's face.

Cowley gave him a faint, approving smile. "Just so. But you did well enough today, in the circumstances. I trust you've both learnt something from it - this may be the only warning you get. Forget your preconceived notions. I know exactly what experience you have, your strengths and your weaknesses. You'll discover we don't always employ orthodox methods in CI5. You'll be dealing with any and every level of activity, from guarding a foreign Minister of State to shepherding a party of school-children around the British Museum. You both have some small skills, I want more. In three months you may actually be of some real use to me."

"And when does all this training begin?" demanded Doyle. His anger contained now, his challenging stare was undiminished.

Cowley gave him a beatific smile.

"On the job, of course. You'll get no expenses paid courses here. I've never thought theory to be of any benefit unless it's given the backup of practical experience. You'll get plenty of the latter. As far as if practicable timetables have been worked out for the pair of you. However, they probably won't last a week. We don't work a nine to five day either."

"That'll make a nice change," murmured Bodie ironically.

Cowley ignored him. "I hope you enjoy late nights and early mornings, you'll be having plenty of both." His tone unchanged, he added, "You have a meeting with Major Daventry of the bombsquad at 5.30 tomorrow morning. Room 13 at headquarters. Don't look so superior, 3.7. Bill Daventry has surprised better men than you. I'll see you both in my room at 8.30. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Both men watched him leave in silence.

"5.30." Able to foresee a savagely curtailed social life, Doyle exuded gloom into the brooding silence. "I expect the acting lessons will come later - if we haven't blown each other up before then."

Still propped against the wall, Bodie studied the urchin-like figure opposite him with something approaching tolerance: Ray Doyle, his partner in adversity. The fact he recognised the knocking down and building up technique Cowley had just used on them had done nothing to reduce its effectiveness on himself. From the expression on Doyle's face he was feeling just as small.

"Welcome to CI5, 4.5," he offered with gentle irony. Scooping up his discarded clothing he turned to leave the house to the capable hands of the team who had appeared and were already beginning to put it to rights.

Doyle paused outside the front door, taking in the bustling crowd of people peering avidly into the garden. Snatches of overheard conversations began to explain how the operation had been set up so successfully in suburbia on a weekday.

"...when it'll be out?"

"...polite one, in the decent suit, did most of the talking..."

"...wasn't as exciting as I thought it would be."

"Man, are you sure you got it right? He told my old lady it was the last day of shooting. They don't make these things in sequence, you know."

"It's a funny thing," remarked a middle-aged lady thoughtfully to her neighbour, her gaze dismissing Bodie and Doyle as unworthy of note, "but I never did see any cameras. Or lights, come to that," she added knowledgeably.

"Aerial photography, love," Doyle told her. Ignoring Bodie's derisive snort he closed the front gate tidily behind him before leaning back against it.

Bodie's sneer changed to a look of open disapproval as he stared at Doyle's tee-shirt clad back, bisected by thin leather strapping. Glancing down, he realised his own holster was equally on display. Careless, he told himself. Still, this was the only place where they needn't worry about the open wearing of small arms by the sounds of it.

"The film should be out by next summer," he said, offering his mite.

"...as maybe. I was promised compensation for any inconvenience," said a carping voice off to their left.

"I'll certainly be putting in a claim. Traipsing through my begonia beds..."

Exchanging a silent, conspiratorial glance Bodie and Doyle made their escape out of the busy cul-de-sac. Half the neighbourhood seemed to have appeared, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous.

"So that's how the old bastard swung it," remarked Bodie with a trace of admiration. "I’d begun to wonder how he set it up. It isn't a bad idea at that," he added judiciously, before nudging Doyle with his elbow. "Smile, petal. You're a star."

The scowl he received made up for a lot.

"It's been a fucking disastrous day, hasn't it," continued Bodie as they turned the corner into the road where their car was parked. He was feeling more cheerful by the second, on the grounds that a misery shared was definitely a misery halved.

"I've known better," Doyle conceded, his shoulders raised in a disgruntled hunch.

"It was a beautiful con job. With some impressive organisation behind it. It wouldn't have even cost much to set up. So am I the only one it's left feeling stupid?" Bodie demanded abruptly.

Standing beside their car, Doyle shook his head. "Nah. We were stitched - by pros." It was obvious he cared for the thought as little as Bodie.

Fidgeting, he gave the other man a dubious glance from over the roof of the car. "Trust no one, the old man said." He directed a look of meaning at the engine. "You don't suppose - ?"

His arms resting on the roof of the car, Bodie tensed but stayed where he was. "It'd be difficult to fake a car bomb," he said, unnecessarily.

"True."

“They couldn't afford to risk planting the real thing. Could they?" He was assailed by a sudden, ridiculous doubt.

"Have you ever noticed how things have a habit of happening in three?" countered Doyle, unconvinced. He'd had all the surprises he cared for in one day.

Of one mind, they stepped back from the car.

"We're probably meant to check it out," offered Bodie morosely. He was ready to sell his soul for a pint of lager, followed by fish and chips and more lager. Being made to look the laughing stock was thirsty work.

"Probably." Doyle stood at his shoulder, his expression pensive. "On the other hand this could be a test of our initiative. So, going by the book, remembering the lectures at the training centre - and bearing in mind we are but raw recruits - I vote we call out the Bomb Squad. Phone box is over there." He was already fumbling in his pockets for some change.

It was an evil thought.

Conceding Doyle's genius Bodie offered him a two pence piece. "Toss you for who gets to make the call."

"Fair enough. You toss, I'll call it," said Doyle promptly.

"Trust no one, eh?"

"That's right. Only - " Doyle's face was scrunched up as though he was in agony. It's a good enough theory - I expect Cowley's full of little gems like that - but you can't work with someone like that full time."

"I can," contradicted Bodie.

There was open disbelief in the gaze turned full on him, and a disconcerting hint of mockery. His expression guarded, Bodie matched Doyle stare for stare.

"I've always placed great faith in my own abilities," he said in abrupt part-surrender when Doyle did nothing to break the silence that had fallen. He refused to make any promises. What the hell did he know about Doyle?

About as much as Doyle knew about him, bugger all.

"I prefer to work solo," he said, spelling it out.

An elbow propped up on the roof of the car, Doyle absorbed that in silence. "I never would have guessed, you made me feel so welcome." He offered an unexpected urchin grin, his nose wrinkling in an engaging way. "Not to worry, I'll soon get you trained to the way I like things done."

Bodie tensed, then relaxed and shrugged. What choice did he have?

"We see how we go then," he conceded. Tossing the coin over the roof to Doyle, he fished out the car keys. "I don't see why we should waste our hard-earned money," he explained, unlocking the door with a trace of bravado.

Not to be outdone Doyle slid into the passenger seat and tried not to fidget too obviously.

Still holding the ignition key in his hand, Bodie gained time by winding down the window. A thought occurred to him.

"We can't be as useless as Cowley made us feel today or we wouldn't still be in CI5."

"I thought we did all right," Doyle conceded, not prepared to go overboard.

"Yeah. It's nice to see you can move when the occasion demands it," remarked Bodie. He'd seen enough to know he had no wish to meet those fish eyes on the wrong end of Doyle's S&W.

"The thing that worries me is can you," said Doyle with gloom. He directed a pointed look at his watch. "Are we going to sit here all night? Only if I've got a lecture at 5.30 tomorrow morning I'll need something to keep me going."

Starting the car with a flourish, Bodie drove off at speed. "What did you have in mind?"

Settling down in his seat. Doyle leaned his head back, his body starting to ache in earnest now. "A drink, shower, change of clothes, another drink and some nice warm bird," he said, his voice soft with anticipation.

"You're not married then?"

"Not even ‘just good friends'. You?" Doyle had opened one eye.

"No. You already got someone lined up for tonight?" Bodie could only admire Doyle's foresight.

"I wish."

Bodie spared him a surprised look. "You think you'll have time to fit all this master plan in, it's almost closing time."

Turning his head Doyle gave him a long, speculative look, rubbed his forearm and smiled to reveal a chipped front tooth.

"No problem," he said with a sunny certainty he almost believed in himself.

Bodie was privately prepared to concede that the other man probably could manage it at that. Put Doyle in some decent clothes, give him a shave and a haircut and he might look quite passable.

"What about you?" asked Doyle.

"Flew out to Sydney yesterday morning."

"A pilot, no less." Doyle was impressed.

Applying the handbrake with more force than was strictly necessary Bodie turned. "Any steering to be done, I'll do," he said in stern warning.

"I can see I'm going to have to teach you something about the fine art of compromise," announced Doyle, prepared to give ground to no man.

There was a short, hostile silence.

Waiting for the traffic lights to change Bodie was struck by a sudden thought. "These early morning starts and all. It would save time if whoever's driving picks up and drops off the other. We'll spend half our lives in the CI5 car park otherwise."

"Oh, I will be allowed to drive occasionally then?"

Bodie's impassive expression eased into a grin of surprising warmth. "I might consider it," he said magnanimously, "once I know my way around London a bit better."

Beginning to get the measure of his new partner, Doyle nodded. "I'll indent for an _A-Z_ tomorrow," he promised.. It occurred to him that he was going to need to do a little compromising of his own.

"No need," said Bodie in airy dismissal, "I've already done it."

Doyle's soft throaty chuckle was contagious and made him grin again.

While it wasn't much, it was a beginning.

Five minutes later, engrossed in an amicable discussion about the merits of the local pubs, Doyle took note of their surroundings for the first time and with some reluctance informed Bodie that he had absolutely no idea where they were.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1984
> 
> First published in _The Small Print 1_


End file.
